


Nothing About This Is Natural

by seakaygee



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, allusions to canon prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5781403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seakaygee/pseuds/seakaygee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tonight Haymitch is coming back from the private sponsor's meeting that he has managed to successfully avoid for the past twenty four years. </p><p>Twenty four years of pigheaded obstinacy undone for a skinny girl who can’t even walk in heels. She hopes Katniss Everdeen is worth it. </p><p>He seems soberer than she'd thought he would be, and her heart clenches a little at the thought of him having to prostitute himself without the protection liquor seems to provide him with."</p><p>Haymitch takes a meeting with a sponsor and Effie tries to help him to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing About This Is Natural

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Wildimaginings for her encouragement and sharp eyes.

Effie has been waiting for the elevator to chime for hours but that doesn’t stop her from jumping when it does. As she grips the expensive bottle of whiskey in her hands, she finds that she suddenly has the oddest compulsion to run. Where she thinks she’s going to go in a sheer, fur-lined robe and a silk nightgown, she’s not sure. But she doesn’t want to see Haymitch after his special meeting with their sponsor. She doesn’t want him to come back in full armor. She doesn’t have the energy for the sarcasm, the bitterness and the anger. Honestly, she doesn’t want to have to strip them away to reach him again. But her fears aren’t important tonight. Tonight Haymitch is coming back from the private sponsor's meeting that he has managed to successfully avoid for the past twenty four years. 

Twenty four years of pigheaded obstinacy undone for a skinny girl who can’t even walk in heels. She hopes Katniss Everdeen is worth it. 

He seems soberer than she'd thought he would be, and her heart clenches a little at the thought of him having to prostitute himself without the protection liquor seems to provide him with. His pale hair is messy, as if he’s been running his fingers through it, but maybe that had been the sponsor. His shirt is buttoned all the way up to the collar but it is partially untucked. His tie is missing. 

Blood roars in her ears as her mind turns over that last detail. Had the sponsor tied him up? The thought of Haymitch powerless and restrained make her dizzy with anger. If she ever meets that--that bitch who did this, she’ll, she’ll--she’ll what exactly? What can she do to someone powerful enough and rich enough to buy a victor? Absolutely nothing is what she can do.

"You lost your tie," she blurts out, her careful manners having deserted her. 

Haymitch looks at her like she's lost her mind. "Didn't lose it. It's right here." He produces the crumpled tie from his pocket. 

They both look at the tie for a moment. Maybe he is thinking the same thing she is. Maybe he is thinking that he is like the tie--discarded after it has served its purpose. 

Tentatively, because Haymitch's rages are as strong as they are unpredictable, she reaches a hand out to him. "Let's get you washed up," she says. “Then you need your sleep. It’s been a big, big, big day.”

He makes a face but allows her to lead him to the bathroom. She sits him down on the closed lid of the toilet, opens the whiskey and presses it into his tremulous hands. He raises an eyebrow, clearly questioning her sanity. "Bath or shower?" she asks, avoiding his eyes. 

"Bath," he says, taking a sip.

She hurries about drawing a bath for him and he noisily gulps down the whiskey until the bath is ready. She stands in front of him, chewing on the inside of her lip. "Do you want me to help you?" she asks, and the words fall from her mouth too quickly because she's afraid. Afraid he'll say yes, afraid he'll say no. 

He nods before taking another drink. He sets the bottle between the tub and the toilet. There’s more left in it than she would have anticipated. Then he stands in front of her--so tall, so constant, such a man. 

She undresses him slowly. When the last buttons of his shirt are undone, she catalogues the scars on his chest. She sighs a little when she sees that there are no new wounds. 

Next she pushes the shirt off his shoulders and lets her fingers run over his skin and finds it warm and unhurt. 

She unbuckles his pants and she can feel the rising tide of panic building in her chest. If the sponsor hadn't marked him with teeth and nails, maybe she'd done something worse. Maybe she'd demanded that he make love to her and had wrested those words from him. The words he hasn't dared to utter since his mother and his brother and his--his girl had burned. Somehow this thought, of all thoughts, makes her the most angry.

More roughly than she ought to considering what he's been through today, she pushes his pants and his underwear down. His thighs and cock look clean and she grabs his waist and cranes her neck to check the backs of his thighs for evidence of dried semen. They are clean too. 

His stubble looks clean as well--not shiny like it usually is when he raises his head up from between her thighs, a smirk on his face and a witty remark on the tip of his tongue. 

The absence of evidence isn't evidence in this case. Many of her past lovers had offered her wipes or towels before kissing her softly and sending her off with their drivers. 

"No need to manhandle me, sweetheart," he grumbles. "The hardware's still in one piece. Workin' just fine if you care to check."

She pulls back quickly. He had said the same thing when she'd brought him a bottle full of blue pills for his meeting. He’d told her that he had a private meeting at a sponsor's home and she had done her job. She’d called the clinic and the doctor rushed a prescription for erectile disfunction medication to the pharmacy. Hands shaking, she’d accepted the bag that contained the bottle of pills. “You don’t look like Haymitch Abernathy,” the pharmacist had joked. “No, I am his escort,” she had snapped. 

He winked, knowingly at her, and said, “Uh, may the odds be ever in his favor, I suppose.” 

When she returned to the penthouse, she didn’t give Haymitch the pills right away. But no matter where she went, she felt them weighing her down. She had brought him the pills so that he didn't have to rely on nature; he never had been much of an actor. But with a few quick tugs he'd be ready to impress anyone in the Capitol. She loathed the very idea of having to hand them to him.

He had tossed the pills aside when she had finally given them to him and told her that the hardware was still working, and that he'd be happy to demonstrate at anytime. Then he’d stood up quickly and pinned her between the table and his body. She'd turned around and leaned over, because that's how he usually liked her when he was angry at the Capitol--an ass and a wig. But he had put his hands on her hips and turned her to face him. He’d told her to take the wig off and started kissing that spot behind her ear that never fails to make her weak in the knees. After he'd made her scream with his tongue, he’d pulled back, looked her in the eye and said her name. Then he’d buried himself inside her and fucked her like there was no tomorrow. And again after he'd gone limp and slipped out of her, he'd brushed his fingertips over her cheeks and whispered her name. 

She had told him to take the pills as he held her. Capitols expected their lovers to last for hours, she had told him. He had looked slightly disconcerted and told her that wasn't natural. She had snapped that none of this was natural.

Maybe he doesn’t even remember having said that to her. 

She herds him into the bath and begins scrubbing his back with vigor. He sits in the water, looking thoughtful as if he is turning something over in his mind. "Pass me the bottle, sweetheart," he says, his tone still too casual for her liking. 

She doesn’t like that. She wants him to throw her down and fuck her until she can’t stand--fucking the Capitol out of her, he calls it. She wants him to hit the bottle--hard. There had been a time when he could have finished a bottle in under five minutes. She wants him to lash out and mock her. She wants him to go to his friends--even that disgusting Chaff would do. But he doesn’t do any of those things. He just seems...muted. 

He sighs, clearly having misinterpreted her silence for reluctance. "I promise I'll take it easy," he says, and Effie finds that she can’t think of a single thing to say in response.

Instead she passes him the bottle and starts washing his chest. He hums with pleasure as she rubs his skin, and his eyes flicker shut. She scrubs his arms next and he still seems eerily calm, so she deliberately runs the cloth down the center of his chest, over the dark blond trail of hair and wraps it around his soft cock. She makes a fist around him and gives him a slow pump. His legs fall open and his hips jerk twice before her hand comes to his base. He looks up at her, grey eyes dark with desire. 

He puts down the bottle and kisses her insistently, the water sloshing over the edge of the tub and soaking her front. He drops a hand to her breast and squeezes, and she pumps him a few more times before he puts his hand on her wrist to stop her. She looks him in the eye and hopes that he’ll say something--anything. 

Instead he climbs out of the tub and starts to towel off. “Do you want me to get a wig?” she asks, folding her arms over her sodden gown.

He cocks his head. “No, I don’t want you to get a wig. You look ridiculous in those things.”

“Sometimes you like them. When you’re angry,” she replies, careful to keep judgement out of her tone.

He snorts. “I’ve never liked them. You just wouldn’t take ‘em off at first. I’ve always liked you best without,” he says as he throws the towel on the floor but takes the whisky with him. Effie bites down on her lip and swallows her disagreement and her reproaches. He’s had a long, hard day, and she shouldn’t aggravate him. 

She follows him to her bed. He sits down and she steps in between his legs. He puts his hands on her hips and pulls her until she’s flush against him, and she leans down to kiss him. But he takes her breast in his mouth instead, sucking hard through the fabric, and the contact lights a small flame of desire in her belly. He flicks her nipple with his tongue then releases her to start on her other breast. She groans as the cool air makes her nipple even harder and weaves her hands in his wet hair. He pulls back and gives her robe a little tug. “Take this off.”

She pauses, hands on the tie, and asks coyly, “Do you want a show?”

“Maybe later, sweetheart,” he says as he takes a drink from the bottle, “Right now I just want you.”

She lets out a shuttering breath, desire coiling in her stomach. She shrugs off her robe, and just to show him how different it’s going to be, she tosses her nightgown, bra and panties across the room. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word. It’s a shame that he doesn’t want a show--her frilly knickers were made for teasing.

She knows what she wants to do. She drops to her knees in front of him and wraps her hands around his ankles. He gives her a sharp look and she’s almost offended. She doesn’t know what happened with the sponsor but she’s almost sure that he wasn’t used sexually. But that doesn’t change the hours she spent worrying about him. She wants to show him how important he is. Show him how much she values every part of him. Pushing all thoughts from her mind, she nuzzles his thigh and she runs her hands over his calves, alternating between soft strokes with the pads of her fingers and scrapes with her pink nails.

She skims his knees and says, “You’re the finest man I know.” Haymitch scoffs at this proclamation, and she digs her nails into his thighs. “You’re a victor. And I’m so proud of my victor.” He hisses a little at that and his cock twitches.

“It’s been a couple of years since I won anything, sweetheart,” he laughs mirthlessly, taking a drink from the bottle.

“I’m not just talking about the Games,” she explains, as she starts to stroke the soft skin of his inner thighs. “Whatever happened tonight,” he tries to interrupt because he still has the worst manners in recorded history but she continues, “You are a survivor. You can overcome this.” She presses a kiss to his thigh, then another. “We can get through it. We’re a team, aren’t we?” She stops kissing him for a moment and looks up at him. He takes a long gulp of the whisky and touches her face. 

“Yeah,” is all he says, looking at her like he’s all of a sudden seeing something new in her.

She resumes her ministrations and he combs his hands through her hair, pulling it back gently. He’s watching her. She can’t see it, but the sigh that escapes him tells her that he’s watching her kiss her way to where she knows he wants her mouth. 

“I love your cock,” she says, letting the blush spread across her cheeks. It’s the single boldest thing she’s ever said and she hopes that he appreciates that. He makes a guttural sound that feeds the fire in her stomach. She wishes she was brave enough to tell him what she loves about his cock. She wouldn’t tell him that she’s been with bigger men, but if only she were braver she’d tell him that he feels like he was made for her, with more than enough length to fill her completely and enough girth to stretch her every time. 

She reaches down and pulls his foreskin back gently. He’s so hot and thick and heavy in her hand that she knows he must be close already. She rolls the beads of moisture that have accumulated on his tip over his length and he tugs her hair a little bit, and she can’t tell if it was an accident or not, but that doesn’t stop arousal from flaring in her belly. She makes a fist around his cock and pumps her hand over him twice. She rolls his foreskin carefully between her fingers and his thigh muscles twitch hard. It took ages for her to learn how to touch him just right. In the Capitol, it was de rigeur to be cut, and Effie didn’t even know to move the foreskin until he told her. She learned his body slowly after many nights and mornings spent exploring each other. She had been a diligent student and he an eager teacher. It was only right that she didn’t know how to please him, because he had practically needed a map to find her clitoris the first few times. She smiles at the memory as she presses soft kisses from his tip to his root. He’s panting and struggling to stay upright so that he can watch her. While he still has some self control, she angles his cock so that her hard nipple drags against him after her lips and her tongue. She watches him track the movement of her nipple against him and smiles when he finally throws his head back and groans.

She doesn’t really remember the first time she sucked his cock--she thinks of her Capitol lovers as having penises or members but Haymitch has a cock and he’s big and hard and made for--for fucking her. But the second time had been memorable. He had told her he wanted to fuck her mouth, and to tap his thigh three times if she was uncomfortable. He’d gripped her hair in one hand and thrust deep into her mouth, all the while heaping curses and insults on her (Capitol bitch being his favorite). She had held him there, hollowing her cheeks and sucking him further in before he began to move in her mouth. When he had finished, there had been a dazed expression on his face as he’d pulled out and ran a finger over her lips, wiping away some of the spit and cum, before asking, “Are you okay, princess?” She’d nodded, her breathing uneven. She had never been so aroused in her life. He treated her like trash when he was inside her but there was care and even tenderness in him afterwards. She’s always loved how rough and callous he can be, and revels in the softness he reveals only to her after he’s made a show of how little he cares. She carries that memory and that knowledge like a secret.

She wants to show him how much she cares the only way she’s ever known how, the only way anyone has ever accepted from her--she’ll take care of his body. She takes the tip of his cock in her mouth and licks short and fast over his salty slit, then her tongue circles him and the sucking begins. She takes a little more of him with every bob of her head. He’s mostly reclined now, propped up on his elbows so that he can watch her until his head grows too heavy and drops back. He’s making these little growls and grunts that make her nipples harden and her inner muscles clench. No man has ever caused her body to react like this before. She kneads his balls gently until she feels them tense as his breathing becomes more rapid. He says her name in short bursts before he comes in her mouth, hips jerking. She continues to kiss and stroke him until he starts to soften, before licking her lips clean and starting her slow march to his mouth.

She nips hard enough at the skin just above the base of his cock to leave bruises and his hips buck against her mouth with every love bite. He is soft now but his groan of frustration tells her that he wishes that he could go again. She strokes the pale skin of his belly, then pushes her fingers against him. He sighs with the soft touches and groans with the hard ones, but he stops, like he always does, when she brushes her lips against the puckered skin of his scar. The first time she’d touched it, he’d batted her hand away and snarled about her liking to see the Capitol’s handiwork. And she had replied that she’d never seen a large scar before in her life, before dropping a hasty kiss on the skin, as if it had the magic to heal him. She moves on from the scar quickly because she has no intention of re-traumatizing him tonight. 

She nudges his legs back up on the bed so that he can recline on the pillows, and then she resumes her trail of kisses. She takes a break from kissing him when she reaches his heart. She rests her ear against it and listens to her own pulse thrum in her ears. He’s coming down from his high now and his hands are moving slowly on her back and shoulders. “I wish I could have gone for you,” she whispers, resting her chin on his chest.

“No,” his reply is harsh, “I don’t want that. Fuck, Effie, do you know how that would feel?” He pulls her up until they’re nearly eye to eye. She stares incredulously at him. “It’s different. You know it would be different for me,” he says.

“I’m not sure it would be different,” she argues, nestling into the crook of his arm, “Next time I want to do something.” 

“Effie,” he starts.

“No, Haymitch, we’re a team. You shouldn’t have to go alone. I don’t know what they made you do--,” she starts.

He grabs her hip hard, “Effie.” His tone tells her that she should stop before he gets angry and shuts down. She looks into his eyes and they’re so full of pain that she wants to cry. She was so stupid to think that she could help him. That her touch could offer him anything other than pain. “It’s not worth it. I’m not,” his voice catches, “I’m not worth it, sweetheart.” A little sob escapes her lips. She isn’t even crying yet but her lip is wobbling and her throat feels tight. “Do you remember what I tell Finnick and Chaff every year before we go back home?” he asks.

She nods. “Say it,” he prompts harshly.

“Stay alive,” she whispers. He nods and pulls her up for a kiss, which turns into two, which turns into her trying to cover his body with hers as if she can protect him, as if she can wrap him up in her and keep him safe from the world.

Eventually, his cock starts to stir and their kisses become more heated and their breath shallow and fast. She wiggles across him until they’re lined up. She pushes hard into their kiss and grabs a condom off the nightstand. “Ready?” she asks, ripping the condom wrapper.

“Always,” he says, dropping an open mouthed kiss on her throat, “What about you?” He cups her and slips two fingers past her lips. He frowns. “You’re not even close.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes because she’s too much of a lady. “There’s personal lubricant in the bedside table.”

He makes a little growling noise and presses his thumb against her clit. She grinds against it hard, a little gasp escaping her mouth. She doesn’t mean to keep pushing against him. Tonight was supposed to be about him but she does love his hands. He removes his hand suddenly and that’s okay because she’s almost wet enough for him. 

Then he grabs her clit between his thumb and his forefinger and gives it a tug. She doesn’t mean to cry out but she does. Her arms give out and she’s hot and trembling as he rolls his thumb gently over her clit. He plunges two fingers into her and she bares down on him, shoulders scrunched up by her ears. “Better?” he asks, his voice dark and rough.

She opens her mouth to say yes but only a little whimper escapes. Still shaking, she sits up and takes his cock in hand. She takes a couple of breaths, hoping to calm the blood rushing in her ears, then she sinks down on him. Their groans mingle as she adjusts to the feel of him. She sets a slow pace, rising and falling in time with his breath.

But he just sits there as she rolls her hips against him. He just sits there with one hand curled around the whiskey and the other around her hip. He just sits there and watches her as she breathes faster, as one of her hands works her clit and the other squeezes her nipples. He watches her face intently only occasionally dropping his gaze to her breasts or groaning when he sees where they are joined, where her wetness has spilled over onto him. He is too docile for her liking. She wants him to fight, so she clenches around him as tightly as she can and his only reaction is to let his eyes flutter shut. He squeezes her hip tighter and opens his eyes with obvious effort. She can feel how close he is, how hard he is, how tight his balls are. And she’s close too. She lets her head loll forward, heavy with the weight of pleasure and the pain of being so close to him, so close to her orgasm and so far away that it feels as though she will never reach either. He raises his hand and the bottle along with it and tips her chin up until her heavy eyes are looking at him. There’s something softer in his gaze than she’s ever seen and she’s not ready for it. She has loved him for eight torturous, lonely years but tonight she’s not ready for him to love her back. Not tonight, not after he’s done whatever it is he’s just done with some stranger.

He grabs her hips, whiskey splashing on her side and thrusts hard into her. She shrieks a little, her hands dropping to his chest to support her weight. She rotates her hips forward so that her clit rubs against the little mound of fat just above his cock. She’s so close now and her eyes are burning and her throat is so tight that she’s afraid that it might be closing off. Her breath is escaping in painful little huffs as the first wave of her orgasm hits her. The angle isn’t great and she thinks that there might not be anything else coming until he pulls her down hard against him. His cock touches the most sensitive part inside of her and instead of crying out, she’s crying. Her whole body convulses in a loud sob that wracks through her. Her hips twitch against him and the stimulation sends a hundred little shock waves through her and each wave unleashes a tear. She tries to cover her face but she’s too late.

Haymitch starts to say her name but her internal muscles hold him tight within her and suddenly, he’s coming too. His hips jerk against her and his back arches as he calls her name. The bottle of whiskey falls to the floor and she can hear it spilling its contents.

She collapses back on his chest and pulls him tight to her. She had been so worried about the sex that she hadn’t even considered that he could have died. They could have made him fight another victor or do something stupid and dangerous. She thinks that she’d willingly heal all of his wounds, if he just stays alive. “Okay, sweetheart?” he pants, as his soft cock slips out of her.

“I am fine, Haymitch. I suddenly remembered a time when I wore coral with burgundy. Can you imagine? I am so ashamed. I cannot believe I’m telling another living soul about it,” she murmurs against his warm, live, living chest.

He chuckles and wraps an arm around her. Her hands wander over his body, her fingers tangle in his chest hair, and her lips press against every inch of skin they can reach. The sleepiness starts to soak in and she fights it, because whether their Tributes win or lose, they only have a short amount of time together.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” she finally says. She might not be ready for him to love her but she’ll never be ready to lose him.

There is a long pause, heavy with all of the things she wants to say. But he is the one who breaks it. Curling his arm tighter around her, he says, “I already have.” And she’s not sure if he means that he did something stupid with the sponsor or if he means by being here, so close to her. She presses a kiss to his chest and stays awake until his breathing slows.

When he finally sleeps, she plans for their victory--this year or the next. She’ll get each one of them a token. A golden token because gold is forever and so are they.


End file.
